


Once Upon a December

by murphystarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Amnesia, Anastasia AU, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Felix Hugo Fraldarius knows all the Russian swear words - Freeform, Gen, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Non-Canonical Character Death, One-sided pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, based on both the movie and the musical - Freeform, descriptions of violence, does the language tag count if the swears are done in Russian and French? - Freeform, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphystarr/pseuds/murphystarr
Summary: The dark shadow of the revolution had fallen over Russia, taking out most of the royal families in it's path. But when rumors start to arise of a man in Paris offering ten million rubles for the safe return of the Honorable Annette Fantine Dominic, Sylvain and Felix find themselves in their biggest scheme yet, joined by a tiny redheaded woman along for the ride.[a felannie anastasia au]
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Annette Fantine Dominic & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	Once Upon a December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette receives a music box. The revolution crashes a ball. Sylvain eats a potato.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the fic that lived in my head rent free for an entire 10 months before i started writing it
> 
> enjoy your stay

**“A Rumor, a Legend, a Mystery”**

_It’s a rumor, a legend, a mystery! Something whispered through an alleyway or through a crack!_

* * *

“ _Пчелка_.”

A little girl turned her head, breaking her attention from a pristine looking dollhouse. She cradled a porcelain-bodied doll in her little hands, dressed in a fine silk dress with intricate embroidery. 

“Yes, papa?”

“It’s time to go to sleep. It’s already past your bedtime.”

The little girl jutted out her lower lip, making the man chuckle.

“Please, papa, five more minutes?” She cooed. “It’s my birthday, I’m six now. I can stay up a little bit longer.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve already let you stay up as long as I could. You don’t want to be tired for lessons tomorrow, don’t you?”

She puffed out her cheeks and furiously knit her brows together. The man couldn’t help but laugh at his daughter’s expression. He knew that she was only putting up a front; she loved to learn, her tutors would rave on and on about how _smart_ she was, having long conversations with her French tutor at such a young age as if she had been speaking the language all her life instead of Russian. She was known to tire everyone around her by asking question after question, desperate to know answers to the world around her. She was like a little sponge, and her gift and desire for learning was constantly being nurtured with the best tutors, though she would often tire their ears off with the incessant amount of questions she had.

She didn’t want to be tired for her lessons in the morning, that was a given, but her papa knew that she wanted to continue on with her new dollhouse, a birthday present from her uncle. She had been all over the new toy since he had brought it out to the nursery, dressing her new dolls in a variety of luxurious outfits with such care and attention for hours. If he left the now six-year-old to her own devices, he was certain that she would have fallen asleep on the carpet. But to her papa’s surprise, she let out a little hum of resignation.

“Alright, papa. May I at least put them to bed, first?”

He smiled. “Of course you may.”

He watched as his daughter carefully put her dolls in their beds, tucking them in with such care, careful not to bump their limbs against the tiny furniture. She put the last doll to bed, whispered something to it, then stood up and walked across the nursery to where her papa was standing in the threshold, taking his outstretched hand with her own. She allowed her to be escorted down the long, elaborate hallways to her bedroom, jubilantly retelling the day’s events with her papa and occasionally wishing a goodnight to a maid or butler.

The two eventually made it to her bedroom, where her papa turned on the lamp on her bedside table after he picked up the birthday girl. The lamp lit the room in a soft glow, shining a dim light on his daughter’s face as he laid her down into her bed.

“Did you have a good birthday, _Пчелка_?” He asked, bringing the quilt to her chin. She enthusiastically nodded, bringing her arms from underneath the sheets to rest on top of the covers. He took a seat next to her, brushing a piece of hair away from her face. “What was your favorite part?”

The little girl hummed, eyes darting to look up to the ceiling in thought. Her face lit up soon after. “Making treats with Uncle Arthur! And-And-And-And going swimming with Marciline and Thérèse and Odette! And going horseback riding with mama! And when baby Alexandre sneezed and made all the powdered sugar go everywhere!”

Her papa couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds like you had a fun day.” He placed a calloused hand on her cheek, and she leaned into it.

“My dear, I have something to tell you.”

His daughter sat straight up in bed at the sudden change in her papa’s tone. He immediately noticed her worrisome expression, and then quickly put on a little smile.

“It’s alright, don’t worry. Everything is okay. I only wanted you to know that I’ll be leaving Saint Petersburg in three days’ time.”

Her expression only seemed to grow even more woeful. Her papa couldn’t help but feel for her misery; she never liked it when he would leave the palace for more than a day. She was his little shadow; everywhere he went she was sure to follow him. 

“Don’t fret, _Пчелка_. I’ll only be gone for a week or so. Moscow isn’t that far away. I’ll be home before you know it.”

She lit up at the mention of Moscow. How could she not, it was where the King’s royal palace was located, more importantly, it was where her little friend was.

“Are we coming with you? Will I get to see Prince Dimitri again? Oh, please say yes!”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a friendly visit. The king needs my assistance with some important things. There won’t be much time for fun. I don’t know if I’ll even get to see the Prince.”

Her expression fell again. Her papa smiled, he had just the thing for that. He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out two things: a small, oval-like object, solid gold painted with intricate, green trim, and a matching necklace, holding a charm in the shape of a six-pointed star. It immediately grabbed the attention of his daughter. 

“What are those, papa?”

“These, my dear, are your final gifts. I figured they could help make our separation a bit less painful.” He offered her the oval-like object, which she took and began to inspect.

“What is it? Is it a jewelry box?”

He chuckled. “Watch closely.” He pressed the middle of the necklace into the center of the box, and began to turn it. Something inside began to click with each turn, and when he pulled the necklace away, the lid of the box opened, and a familiar tune began to fill the room as two dancing figures rose out of the box. The little girl’s face lit up and she let out a tiny gasp, recognizing the music.

“It’s our lullaby…”

“You can play it at night when you go to sleep, and pretend it’s me singing to you.” He began to sing along, his deep baritone voice matching along with the melody.

“ _Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember…_ ”

His daughter took over the song, knowing each word by heart.

“ _Things my heart used to know… things it used to remember…_ ”

The two joined in for the final line, their voices melding into a sweet harmony.

“ _And a song, someone sings, once upon a December._ ”

They watched the dancing couple descend back into the music box and the lid carefully close shut. The little girl beamed, holding the music box against her chest.

“I love it, papa. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t forget this,” he said, gingerly placing the necklace around her neck. “Read what it says.”

She took the charm, reading what was inscribed in the lamplight. “Together in… Paris…” She looked back at her papa, beaming once again. “Really?”

“Think of it as a promise. When you are grown, I’ll take you to Paris. And there, we’ll do anything your heart desires.”

“Can- Can we go to the ballet?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“And eat desserts! Lots of desserts! Mama says that the deserts in Paris are like no other!”

He let out a chuckle. She definitely inherited her sweet tooth from his wife. “You can have all the sweets your heart desires, my little _Пчелка_. However, there is somewhere important in Paris that we certainly need to visit.”

“The Eiffel Tower?”

He let out a deep belly laugh. “Yes, the Eiffel Tower is important, but we need to visit a bridge.”

“A bridge?”

“Yes. The Pont Alexandre III. It was named after your mama’s father, your grandfather.”

“And baby Alexandre, too.”

“Yes, we also named your little brother after him. He meant a lot to me, and I know that he would have loved to meet you and your brother and sisters.” He leaned over and gently encouraged his daughter to lie back down. “That’s enough talk for tonight, my dear. It’s time to go to sleep.” He kissed her forehead, then pulled the quilt up to her chest. He watched as her eyelids began to grow heavy, and leaned over to extinguish the lamplight. Slowly, he rose off his daughter’s bed, tucked a piece of red hair behind her ear, and carefully strode across the room, and took one last look at his daughter before closing the door after him.

“Goodnight, my sweet Annette.”

* * *

The promise of Paris should have been the farthest thing from the Honorable Annette Fantine Dominic’s mind, yet it was all she could think about lately.

She sat at her vanity, head resting in her folded arms as she watched the dancing couple rise once again out of her music box, twirling to the song she and her papa had shared with each other for years. She almost envied the porcelain couple, safe from the world around them in the confines of their golden box. They didn’t have to worry about appearances or thinking they were an embarrassment to their country or being kissed up to by potential suitors. She watched as the couple retreated back into their box as the music ended, and reached across the vanity to grab her necklace to wind up the box again.

“You’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep listening to that.”

Annette didn’t have to turn to head to see that it was her older sister standing at the doorframe. Yet there she was, giving her a sad smile. Marceline was the spitting image of their mother, with her high cheekbones and long blonde hair coiffed into an intricate braid, looking as elegant and princess-like as the daughter of a former Baron could be in a muted pink ball gown. She strode across the room to place a comforting gloved hand on her sister’s shoulder. 

“Come on, Netta, put the box away. At least for tonight. It’s a joyous occasion, we should be celebrating.”

“I know,” Annette rose her head up from her arms, pretending not to notice the rouge she had left behind on her long white elbow gloves. She could worry about that later. “It’s just… it feels wrong to celebrate something so… trivial at a time like this. There’s so much going on around us, and yet, here we are, pretending it doesn’t exist. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Marceline nodded, face solem and stoic. “I know how you feel, things around us have been quite… manic since we lost uncle… King Lambert. But I believe that King Rufus is doing his best to help everyone.”

Annette inwardly rolled her eyes. Marceline made it sound so simple, like their godfather hadn’t been assassinated and had his brains blasted across the royal tapestry in his study. Annette had been crushed when they had received the news of the king’s demise. She had cried for weeks, crying beyond the point where she believed she had no more tears to spare. But no one had felt the grief sink down into their hearts more than their papa, who had to have mama read out loud the eulogy he had written for the king’s funeral.

Annette had sat with her sisters and brother, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from spilling any more tears, glancing around the church in hopes of seeing a familiar blond head, but Dimitri was nowhere to be found. She had asked the newly coronated King Rufus about her friend’s whereabouts after the funeral, when the entire party had returned back to the castle from burying the deceased king. Rufus could only tell Annette that Dimitri was sick and couldn’t be present that day. Annette pressed further, asking why Dimitri wasn’t at his own father’s funeral, surely he wasn’t that sick! She had seen him ride horses with fevers and play war games with horrible headaches! He was strong! Stronger than anyone she knew! Where was her friend?

Papa had pulled her aside and heavily chastised her for her actions; this wasn’t proper behavior at a funeral, nor for a girl of her title.

Later on, papa had escorted his family to their train car and informed them that he wouldn’t be accompanying them back to Saint Petersburg. Mama had protested, but papa said that he needed to stay behind and help the new king adjust to his duties. It was his responsibility as Baron; he couldn’t leave the king behind at a time like this. Mama relented, allowing him to kiss her and hug their children goodbye, wishing them well and a safe journey home.

The next time they heard from their papa was a week later, when an official courier from House Blaiddyd bid a short message from him: he was renouncing his title and would not be returning home. His younger brother, Arthur, their uncle, would be the new Baron Dominic. Nothing more, nothing less.

Mama sent countless messages back to Moscow, demanding answers from her husband. Demanding that he come home. Begging him even. There wasn’t a single response until King Rufus had sent a letter with horrible news; he was long gone. He took off in the middle of the night after completing helping him adjust to being king, not even leaving a note or any sort of indication on where he would be going.

In the span of a fortnight, Annette lost three people.

For the past four years, life in Russia wasn’t anything like she had remembered. Almost as if her childhood was nothing more than a story in a children’s storybook. Full of picnics, horseback riding, and social visits with nearby nobility. Now, Annette could count the number of times on her fingers when she was permitted to leave the palace in the past year. Even then she had to be escorted by at least three armed guards. It was for her own safety, her uncle had told her when Annette had enough and tried to sneak away from the grounds to go to the local bakery. She didn’t make it that far, however, she had been spotted just as she slipped through the gates. Nobles were being terrorized and badly hurt all over the country. The heir from the Gaspard family had been missing for eleven days until his body had been found floating down the Neva River, battered, bruised, and nearly unrecognizable. 

“At least accept escorts for your mother’s sake, Annette.” Uncle Arthur had begged. “Your mother worries for you and your siblings’ safety and wellbeing constantly. Please, help her lighten her load.”

The next time Annette stepped outside, she was met with the bitter winter wind and five armed guards. As if the Russian temperatures weren’t enough to make her shiver down to her bones, the rhythmic footsteps of her escorts, drumming against the sidewalk and in her heart, were a reminder that this was her new normal. Each thud against the sidewalk seemed to squash the idea that life could return to the way it was before… back when uncle Lambert and Prince Dimitri would come to the Dominic palace for a few weeks in the summertime to swim in the nearby ponds. Back when papa and mama would dance in the common sitting area after dinner, accompanied by her sisters on the piano and violin. Back when uncle Arthur was just their uncle, unburdened by the duties of a Baron and would play wrestle with his nieces and nephew and taught Annette how to bake. Back when Annette could truly smile, when a warmness inside her heart could melt even the harshest of Russian winters.

But now she preferred to stay inside more these days. It was too cold for her to go outside.

Annette sighed, nestling her head in her arms again. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

A new voice called out from behind her. “Are you done being sad, or can we go down and dance?”

Marceline grinned. “I’m ready, but I’m not so sure about Annette.”

Annette peered over her shoulder to see two near identical faces grinning mischievously at her. Thérèse and Odette. Despite having nearly a single year age gap the pair were nearly identical; each bearing the soft nose of their mother and their father’s steely blue eyes. Odette was blessed with their father’s bright red hair, but both girls had their mother’s curls. Each girl had their hair styled in an elegant updo, jewels pinned in their buns with baby hairs framing their face. If the average person didn’t know any better, one might say they were as mature as they were beautiful.

But Annette knew the truth.

Odette had no problem striding across the room to cup Annette’s face between her hands, pressing her cheeks together to force her lips to pout out. Annette squirmed in her seat, trying to break away from her older sister’s hold, but Thérèse snuck behind her and wrapped her own arms around Annette, holding her in place. The duo laughed as they watched their baby sister struggle against their grip. Annette could only try and break free, but her sisters were firm.

“C’mon, Annette! Don’t you want to go to the party?” Odette cooed, squishing Annette’s cheeks and jostling her head from side to side.

Thérèse chimed in, “Yeah, it’s our birthday party! 300 years doesn’t happen very often!”

“Would you stop that? You’re messing up her hair and face!” Marceline shouted, standing from her seat and hurrying over to where her older sisters were torturing Annette. “Honestly, you’re the older sisters! You act as if you’re younger than Alexandre!”

Thérèse responded by shooting her tongue from her mouth but relinquished her hold on Annette. Odette did the same, letting her sister catch her breath. Annette turned to her mirror, seeing that Marceline was right, her once effortless look was now smeared and disheveled. Flyaway hairs and baby hairs haphazardly framed her forehead and face, and her rouge was smeared out past her cheekbones, painted down her face and across her nose. Even if she wanted to go to the ball, she couldn’t go looking like _this_.

“You’re too serious, Marcie,” Odette huffed, reaching into a drawer in Annette’s vanity, picking out a rouge compact, a brush, and a tissue. She immediately went to work fixing Annette’s makeup that had smudged underneath her hands, wetting the tissue with her tongue and rubbed the excess away. She then dabbed the brush against the makeup, then lightly swiped the brush against Annette’s cheekbones. “We were just playing around. Netta knows that.”

Thérèse went to work at fixing Annette’s hair, undoing the messy crown braid with her fingers. She picked up a brush and started softly dragging the bristles though her sister’s hair. “Give us a break, _mother_.” Satisfied, she went to work at braiding Annette’s long hair up and across her head, tucking the tail end behind her ear and securing it with a bobby pin. “Everyone is high strung around here lately, so what if we need to let off a little energy?”

“So you decide to take it out on me?” Annette piqued up, knitting her brows together in equal part frustration and curiosity.

“You’re the baby,” Thérèse said, tapping Annette’s nose with her index finger. “We’re permitted to mess with you any time we like.” Annette leaned forward to try and bite Thérèse's pointed finger, but she pulled it away just in time. “Oooh, she’s feisty tonight.” Odette let out a snort.

“Both of you, _stop it_ .” Marceline said, her voice deep and laced with anger. The two oldest Dominics were quick to halt their teasing, which Annette sent up a silent prayer as thanks. “We’re _all_ high strung, Thérèse. Uncle Arthur has been worried about the revolutionaries for weeks. Why do you think we’re holding the ball so late? Things have calmed down a bit.”

Annette looked down at her dress, which she and a few maids had spent nearly half-an-hour getting her into. It was a beautiful peach color, lined with intricate beading and delicate embroidery on the bodice. It was the fanciest dress Annette had ever worn, perfect for celebrating an event as large and important as that night, 300 years of House Dominic’s rule. Though there were many people beyond the palace walls who would object to a celebration that night, or even the mere presence of the Dominics.

Rufus wasn’t like the king that his late brother had been, even Annette could tell. King Rufus didn’t seem to have the drive to pick up the pieces that his brother left behind, and was failing at the steps needed to lead their country into a stronger, more progressive nation. In fact, things started to head south rather quickly once the crown was placed on Rufus’ head. Families were poorer and sicker than ever. People were starving and dying in the streets. Children were losing their parents and sleeping in overcrowded orphanages, if they were lucky to be even placed in one.

The people were growing angry with his failure to lead their country, and their anger slowly spread to the nobles who were living the life of wealth and privilege that they could only dream of. There were daily protests outside the palace walls, calling for the Baron to stand up to the bumbling King Rufus and save their country. Instead, Baron Dominic called for his brother’s wife, nieces and nephew to remain inside the palace at all times for their safety, there wasn’t any way of knowing what an angry mob could be capable of. Annette was suddenly a prisoner in her own home, barricaded by high walls, immovable guards, and a growing moat of angry Russian people.

“Is that why you don’t want to go, Netta?” Odette asked, and Annette could suddenly feel the eyes of her three older sisters flash their way to her. She busied herself with a loose strand of thread on her dress, twirling it between her fingers. “You haven’t really been looking forward to tonight.”

Annette could only offer a shrug. “That’s… part of it. There’s been a lot on my mind lately.”

“Does any of it have to do with that?” Annette looked up to see Odette pointing a finger to her vanity, and Annette trailed the finger to find it had been pointing at the music box. Annette just cast her eyes to the loose string again, shaking her head.

“Not entirely.”

“Are you sure?” Annette rose her head, meeting her eldest sister’s eyes. “I think it has everything to do with that.”

“You have been listening to it a lot lately,” Thérèse chimed in, “more than usual.”

Annette retreated her gaze back to her music box. She gingerly picked it up and held it in her hands, thumb lightly tracing the embossed pattern on the lid. “I… I just miss him. Is that wrong?”

“Oh, Netta. Of course not.” Odette bent down to circle Annette with her arms, placing her head on Annette’s shoulder. “We all miss him. Every day.”

Annette leaned into the touch, resting her head against Odette’s. “I know it’s been four years, but-”

Thérèse scoffed. “You’re allowed to miss him now as much as you did before. Just because it’s been years doesn’t mean you have to stop.”

Marceline nodded. “We all want papa to come home to us someday. You’re allowed to grieve for the moments he’s missed.”

Annette could only let out a deep sigh. She knew her sisters were right, but it still felt strange that she missed her papa. Her sisters and brother seemed to cope just fine without him, even their mama seemed to be doing fine, busying herself with work and assisting uncle Arthur with his duties. They all moved on, so why couldn’t she?

She let out a deep breath and placed her music box back on her vanity, right next to her necklace. Annette began to stand, making Odette release her grip around her. She smoothed out her dress, then put on a smile and faced her sisters.

“So, are we ready to go dance?”

They all grinned and immediately stood, taking Annette’s hands and shoulders and ushered her out of her room and down the hallway.

Annette could put on a happy face for a few hours. She could do that. Pretend to have fun and dance with her fellow nobles and ignore the state of the world around her. Ignore the ache that resided deep in her heart that only her papa’s hug could fix.

She could try.

* * *

It all happened too fast. 

One moment she was dancing with her uncle, genuinely having a good time, then a piercing bang echoed through the dance hall, and she could see a nobleman falling to the ground, the back of his head turned to mush. The screams that followed seemed to ring louder than the sounds of the stained glass shattering around them, sending bits of colored glass flying everywhere. Annette didn’t even have time to process what was going on when her uncle covered her with his blues coat, ushering her away from the commotion and down a dark, cramped hallway.

“Uncle? Uncle! What’s going on? Where are we going?”

“Hush, Annette. We need to get out of here, keep your voice down.”

The two hurried down a labyrinth of passageways, Annette being blindly ushered by her uncle until the coat was finally lifted from her line of sight, and she could recognize that they were in the servants quarters. Arthur quickly bent down to his niece’s level, putting both hands on her shoulders and squeezing tight.

“Netta, I need you to listen to me, this is very important.”

Annette shivered. She had never seen her uncle this serious before. His usual playful expression was marred with a deep frown and forehead wrinkles. She had never seen her uncle this upset. She could only nod, a harsh tightness in her throat kept her from speaking.

“We are in grave danger. The revolutionaries have broken in.”

A cold chill racked through Annette’s body, sending a flood of goosebumps from the crown of her head to her toes. How? How could have they broken in? Her uncle had reassured her time and time again that not even a stray cat could get past the walls, much less a mob of enraged people. But they were there. Annette could tell. She could feel their footsteps through the floorboards, no doubt searching for them. She could hear their screams and shouts, but she couldn’t differentiate the voices of their guests from the intruders. She hoped that the sweet old man she shared a dance with made it out safely. He told her that he had a new grandson that he would be meeting next week.

Tears began to flood Annette’s eyes, and she covered her mouth with her hand to keep any noise from escaping. Arthur squeezed her shoulders a bit tighter before pulling her into an embrace and rocking her from side to side.

“Listen to me, Netta. I know you’re scared, but I’m going to protect you. I’m going to protect your sisters and brother and mother. I would die before I’d let anything happen to any of you.” He pulled her away from the embrace, looking her directly in the eye. “I’m going to get you all out of here, but I need you to do exactly what I tell you to do from here on out, okay?”

She could only choke out an “okay” before the door behind her started to creak open. She slowly turned, fully expecting to find herself staring down the barrel of a rifle, instead making eye contact with Alex. She fell backwards upon the impact of her brother’s running hug, but she quickly composed herself to squeeze back with an equal fervor. She couldn’t tell if the growing damp spot on her sleeve was tears or sweat, but it didn’t matter. Not right now anyways.

Annette quickly pushed her fears aside to find her voice and a newfound steady composure while rocking her little brother in her arms, making soothing shushing noises as she threaded her hands through her hair. When did he grow taller? They were nearly at eye level when he pulled away to wipe his eyes. Her sisters and mother followed suit, along with Nikolai, her uncle’s advisor and family friend. He had been with the Dominic’s long before her own papa rose to the title; they all considered Nikolai to be as a surrogate grandfather, as he had sprouted more gray hairs in the past few years and was often soft on the girls. Annette was too distracted with reuniting with her family, accepting hugs from her sisters and forehead kisses from her mama while Nikolai and her uncle went off to the side and spoke in hushed tones. She couldn’t help but see her uncle’s expression fall from the corner of her eye, then felt ice drop into the pit of her stomach. Nikolai managed to get the family’s attention before speaking in a low voice:

“Your Graces, we don’t have much time. We need to get to the Imperial Garage as quick as we can. There’s an automobile waiting for you all in there. Hurry, hurry, and stay silent. Not a peep. Don’t walk unless I tell you to and stop immediately when I say so. Stay together. Got it?”

They were all quickly ushered into a single file line, and Annette found herself standing between Marceline and Alex. She had no issue reaching behind her to clasp her brother’s trembling hand, and slipping her other one into Marceline’s waiting palm. Nikolai took the lead, guiding the family out of the servant’s quarters and down a hallway. There, Annette could finally see the carnage that had been occurring.

It was almost as if a storm tore through the hall; furniture was overturned, holes punched through the wall, and broken glass laid all across the floor, shattering underneath every step the family took as they kept walking. There wasn’t any time to look back, no time to dwell on the times she and her siblings spent playing in that room together, listening to records and making up plays and songs to present to their governesses. Annette was on autopilot, following the pack silently but efficiently. They waited around a corner until Nikolai gave the signal, then the family hurried into the art gallery, a room that had been thankfully untouched by the impending disaster. She heard her mother sigh in temporary relief as Nikolai hurried across the room to check if it was safe, but all Annette could stare at was the floor to ceiling portrait of her papa.

She hadn’t been in the art gallery in years, not since they received the letter four years ago that he wouldn’t be returning to Saint Petersburg. It hurt her heart too much to look into their identical steely blue eyes and remember that he wasn’t coming home. There were too many memories that came to her when she stared at the portrait… dancing with each other at weddings, the time where he jumped into a river in his full military blues to make her smile, and… her sixth birthday.

“Oh, no.”

“What’s wrong, Annette,” Marceline whispered. “Is everything okay?”

“My music box… I need to go get it.”

“Are you crazy?” Marceline hissed. “You heard Nikolai, we need to get out of here!”

“I-I know, but I can’t leave it behind.”

“What’s going on?” Alex asked, squeezing Annette’s hand until she turned to face him. “Annette, what are you talking about?”

“Everything’s fine, Alex. I just need to go get something.”

“Bullshit you’re leaving,” Marceline growled, pulling Annette’s arm so she had no choice but to turn around. All signs on her face pointed to anger, but Annette couldn't help but notice the tears pooling in Marceline’s eyes. Annette was stunned; Marceline never let her emotions get out of hand. She was the strong one, the one who the people of Saint Petersburg called “the daughter of iron”. Nothing phased her, she was realistic and relied on logic whenever a problem arose in their family. Annette couldn’t even remember the last time she saw her older sister cry. If she was crying, then she must have been truly afraid. “Please, Netta,” she choked out, hot tears dribbling down her face, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Annette pulled her sister into a hug, squeezing tight as she felt Marceline bury her forehead into the crook of Annette’s neck.

“Marcie...” Annette whispered, pressing a kiss to Marceline’s temple. She squeezed a little tighter. “ _Прости меня_.”

She ripped herself away from Marceline’s arms, picking up her dress as she ran out of the art gallery and quickly turned the corner. She could hear Marceline calling after her, but she pressed on, the heartbeat in her ears matching her racing feet, hurrying up the stairwell and down the hallway until she reached her bedroom door.

The electricity snuffed out just as she turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Annette momentarily felt her heart drop as the world around her suddenly went dark, but she quickly adapted, adrenaline pumping through her body as she relied entirely on memory to shuffle to her vanity to retrieve her music box. It was exactly where she left it before she left to go to the party, with the necklace resting just beside it. She quickly strung the necklace around her neck and tucked it inside of her dress, the promise of Paris resting right against her heart.

Annette took off again, retracing her steps as she ran down the hallway and down the staircase, keeping her eyes and ears open for any sign of danger. Thankfully, her path remained clear of any intruders, and she quickly found herself back where she had started… only to find the room empty.

She could feel the eyes of her ancestors staring at her from the walls, judging her selfish actions as she stood in the threshold of the art gallery, trembling. She was too late. The revolutionaries found her family. They had taken them somewhere and put a bullet between their eyes. 

Annette was too deep in her grief to notice an arm snake around her middle and a hand slap itself against her mouth, then pull her out of the art gallery and around a dark corner. She immediately fought back, flailing her arms and legs and screaming as loud as she could, until she heard a voice whisper in her ear,

“Netta, hush. It’s me.”

Nikolai.

She immediately ceased all action, turning her head to see his warm brown eyes and graying beard. He removed his hand from her mouth and spun her around, examining her from head to toe.

“Are you hurt?”

“N-No.”

“Were you followed? Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.”

He let out a deep sigh, dropping his head so his chin was touching his chest. “ _Хвалить его_ …” He raised his head again, this time his eyes burning and his face growing red.

“What were you thinking, you stupid girl?! Did you not hear me when I said stay together?! You could have been kidnapped or killed!”

Annette felt her own face grow hot, a hard lump building in her throat as she bit the inside of her cheek. “I… I’m so, so sorry, Nikolai. I- I needed to go back and get my music box. I can’t leave it behind.”

He let out a thunderous sigh, loud enough that Annette was terrified for a moment that a revolutionary would hear him and come to where they were hiding. Thankfully, no one came. Nikolai clamped a firm hand around her wrist, and started to pull her along.

“What’s done is done. Your family is safe, but we need to hurry. We need to get you all out of here _now_. Come, and hurry.”

Annette allowed herself to be dragged along by Nikolai, a newfound feeling of hope fluttering in her chest. Her family was okay. They were safe. They were _alive_.

They were going to be okay.

They ran down a few hallways before stopping in front of a cellar door. Nikolai let go of Annette’s wrist and started to open the latch.

“Stay close, your family is down here, then we’ll head to the-”

What was left of the sentence was cut off by a sudden mouthful of blood. Annette unwillingly let a scream escape from her throat, watching as a man in a green uniform jumped up from the opening of the cellar to stab Nikolai in the chest with a bayonet. Blood immediately dribbled out of Nikoali’s mouth, staining his lips and oozing from between the gaps in his teeth. Nikolai slowly turned his head to Annette, blood gurgling in his throat as he wheezed out,

“Y-Your Grace… R-Run.”

The man yanked the bayonet out of Nikolai’s chest, and his body fell to the ground, twitching on the tile as blood pooled under him. The man grinned maniacally, taking a step towards Annette, who in turn took two steps back. She turned to sprint down the hallway, but found herself colliding into someone’s chest. The person she crashed in to quickly grabbed Annette by her wrists, then violently yanked to knock her off balance. She fell to her knees, losing her grip on her music box. She could only watch as it rolled away, disappearing out of her line of sight.

“Got her! Let’s get her out of here, comrades!”

Annette felt herself being pulled up by her wrists, then slung over the same man’s shoulder as they began to hurry outside into the cold snow. She began to scream, thrashing her limbs and struggling against her captor’s hold.

“ _Дьявол_! All of you! _Дьявол_! Put me down!”

Her actions were met with a solid blow against her temple, and she immediately went limp, pain radiation from the point of impact and slowly spreading around her brain. She felt her vision slowly growing darker by the second, and she fought against everything to keep her from slipping into unconsciousness. She felt herself being adjusted, moving from their shoulder to then flying through the air, colliding against a steel floor. Only then she could feel a slimy heat trailing down her face, tasting the familiar tang of iron when it ultimately reached her mouth.

She couldn’t even recognize the fuzzy faces of her family, rags tightly bound over their mouths and eyes, before everything finally went dark.

* * *

“ _Monsieur_. A letter for you.”

A woman gingerly placed an envelope on a mahogany desk, then pushed it across to the man sitting at it. He was awfully busy, reading over an important looking document before writing down his signature at the bottom. He barely glanced up at the woman before giving her a faint smile.

“Thank you. I’ll give it a read later.”

“ _Monsieur_ ,” she whispered, her voice dripping with woe, “it’s from Russia.”

His pen stopped in its tracks. He looked up at his assistant, face drained of color, misery plastered all over his face. She wore a similar expression, as if she had read the letter ahead of him. But she didn’t need to. If what the newspapers were saying was true, then whatever was written in the letter contained nothing but horrid news. 

“Will… Will you read it to me?”

She solemnly nodded, picking a letter opener off his desk and retrieving the envelope. She sliced it open, pulling out a single piece of paper. Her eyes couldn’t help but glance over the letter, and she let out a noise similar to what an animal made when it was stuck in a trap. Nevertheless, she began to read aloud as tears began to pool in her eyes:

“My dear friend, the revolutionaries have taken over our city. It’s no doubt they’ll expand across the nation. Cassandra and I managed to escape, but I…” She took a moment to blink away a flood of tears threatening to fall. “I can’t say the same for our friends. And I’ve heard sickening rumors that the Dominics didn’t survive-”

She was cut off by a deafening howl. She looked up from the letter, seeing her employer slump over his desk in a heap, shoulders violently hitching with every sob that racked through his body. 

“No! Not them, anyone but them! Why? Why?”

The woman couldn’t hold her tears back, letting them freely fall as she circled around the desk and enveloped his shoulders in an embrace.

* * *

There was no other way of putting it; living in Saint Petersburg, sorry, Leningrad, sucked _ass_.

The fact that the Bolsheviks considered this new way of life to be a drastic improvement from 5 years ago, when nobility and royal titles were still a thing, was laughable. And not just a small chuckle to appease some gross pun, but _laughable_. Feeling like your head is about to burst with aching sides and a moment away from pissing your pants kind of laughable. Sure, life with nobility wasn’t perfect, but even the average joe could purchase a bit more than a few rotten potatoes and maybe a can of beans back then. Now, the streets were caked with trash and grime, windows of once thriving businesses were boarded up, and the once blue skyline was now plagued in a hazy orange, done by the endless spewing of smoke from newly arisen factories. The once beautiful sight of Saint Petersburg was now a faint memory, swapped out with the murky stain of Leningrad.

But it’s just a small price to pay for a world without nobility, that’s what that general said downtown a while back, when the formal announcement of the city’s name change was being made official. The blue haired general who made the announcement was a lively one, he could almost make you believe that these changes were for the better. Everyone was equal, there wasn’t any need for relying on the corrupt nobles anymore like they used to. Everyone was going to help each other now, they were going to be a strong nation, a nation of comrades working together for a common goal, though he never really explained what that goal was.

Still, rumors started to spread faster than influenza. People questioned the legitimacy of the general who promised a brighter tomorrow, he once belonged to a high-ranking family of nobility. Though he did publicly denounce his birthright and aligned himself to the Hersevelg cause, no one really trusted the man who oversaught their city. But no one ever brought this up to him, least in public. The last time someone accused Major von Bergliez of holding on to his noble ties, the man was never seen in public again. Some said he was sent to the gulags. Some said he was part of the group that had been executed by a firing squad the other day. Some even said he had been thrown out into the woods and had been eaten by bears. But all they knew for sure is that he was now gone.

Equality truly never felt so liberating.

A man shivered as he brushed some soot-coated snowflakes out of his red hair, stepping over a lifeless man as he walked down the streets of Leningrad. He pulled his coat closer to his body, hoping to ward off the unnaturally cold October winds that had ripped through Russia for the past month. Little breezes somehow found its way through crudely sewn patches, gliding past skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its place. He cursed as a heavy shiver racked through his spine, he was gonna have to find a new coat soon. One that wasn’t full of holes. But he couldn’t complain, it was better than what most people in Leningrad had.

He wormed his way through the town square, making a beeline for the alleyway while trying to ignore the pedlars that called out to him, calling him _friend_ and if he’d be interested in their wares. They were more like cheap trinkets, little odds and ends looted from the abandoned palaces around the city when the revolution first began. It was an easy way to make a quick ruble, and to make a common man feel like they had a piece of royalty. He just tuned them out, disappearing in the back alleys where the _real_ treasures were.

He passed by a few drunkards before leaning against an inconspicuous looking door, before rapping his fist against the wood three times. A latch slid open just behind his ear, and a voice behind it whispered:

“Where do all roads lead?”

The man whispered back: “Back to the beginning.”

The latch snapped shut and the sound of locks unlatching quickly followed. The door opened just a crack, giving enough room for the redhead to squeeze through. His senses were immediately hit with the presence of the underground market: vendors negotiating prices, meat pies and vodka, coats and boots, cigars and cartons of cigarettes, the rowdy sea of people, all crammed into an abandoned apartment building… it was truly overwhelming but there was business to be done, so he gave the doorman a two-fingered salute and headed up the nearby stairs where the squatters lived.

He reached the third floor with ease and soon found himself in front of the door he was looking for. A few quick knocks later and the door creaked open to reveal a frail woman, holding a small bundle that was undoubtedly a baby. He gave the woman a grin.

“Polina?”

The woman nodded. “Sylvain. I’ve been expecting you.”

He nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two little red booklets. “Two passports, forged for one lovely lady and her little baby.”

Polina let out a chuckle. “You humor me, _Лучик_.” She held out a cloth bag with her free hand, which Sylvain accepted and handed over the passports. He opened the bag to see the payment, as promised, along with…

“A potato?”

“It is all I have,” Polina admitted sadly. “You boys have been so good to me, so patient. I had to repay your kindness somehow. I know there are two of you, but I could only scrounge up one.”

Sylvain reached into the bag to pull out the vegetable, quickly noticing the sheer amount of heat radiating off it into his bare hand. It wasn’t raw, it was cooked. He felt his mouth pool up with drool at the realization, it had been ages since he had a good baked potato.

“Oh, Polina,” he muttered, pulling the potato out of the bag, “you’re an actual angel.” He easily split it in half and stuffed the other half into his pants pocket, before sinking his teeth into his half and feeling his insides sing at the feeling of warm food. He inadvertently let out a moan, not caring about Polina’s little giggle that followed. Screw modesty, he was hungry, dammit. “Thank you, Polina,” he said after swallowing. “Best of luck to you.”

“Bless you, Sylvain. Give my love to your friend.”

He took another bite instead of replying, giving her a wave before taking off down the hallway and stuffing the rubles in his interior coat pocket. He made a few other deliveries before heading back to the ground floor and out into the back alley, 65 rubles richer than before. Sylvain took a deep breath, feeling himself adjust from the cramped market to the open alley around him, and set off, taking little nibbles of potato as he merged in with the crowd in the town square. Sylvain once again ignored the calls of royal’s riches, letting his feet take the memorized path for home. He was just a few blocks away, taking a shortcut through the factory district, hearing a jarring voice cry out:

“-and it turns out the foreman was boning her the whole time! Can you believe that shit?!”

The redhead turned, seeing two factory workers huddling over a blazing trash bin, relishing in the warmth that the fire gave their weary hands. Sylvain couldn’t help but empathize with them, he had been in their position not that long ago. He still had the calluses and scars on his fingers to prove his time in the factories, and his back still popped when he twisted it a specific way. It was decent pay, but the damage done to his body wasn’t worth the money. He didn’t miss it at all.

“What the hell?! I thought he was screwing Natalia! When did he have time to move on to Sasha?”

And he definitely didn’t miss the gossip that came along with working in those conditions. He was never interested in hearing about where the foreman’s eyes were leering over to that day, he was just there to try and not lose his fingers long enough to collect his pay at the end of the week. But where was he to judge on whatever got them through the day? Everyone coped in strange ways. He had seen, and often partook in them, first hand.

“Speaking of bullshit,” the worker continued, “you’re never going to believe what I heard from Kronya the other day.”

“Oh, Lord. What did she say this time?”

Sylvain rolled his eyes. Kronya. The local psychic. But those who knew her or ever dared use her services used that term loosely. She often made outlandish and unbelievable claims, once prophesying that Sylvain would lose all his fingernails unless he stopped eating beans for a month. However, Sylvain was more interested in not starving than the safety of his fingernails, and lo and behold, they were still intact thirty days later. She wasn’t anything more than a phony, and there were many who wondered why the Bolshevik’s didn’t frame her for something and take her out by now.

He had enough of Kronya for the rest of his life. He started to continue walking.

“She had a ‘vision’ the other day. She says that one of the Dominic daughters is alive.”

That stopped Sylvain dead in his tracks. Now that was a name he hadn’t heard in years, and it was the first time he heard it without someone cursing them or damning them to hell.

“Wait… Dominic? Like the Dominic’s that were all killed five years ago?”

“Yeah. I think she said it was Annette? No, yeah, it was Annette. She said it was the youngest daughter.”

Sylvain couldn’t help but let out a tiny snort. A _noble_? Alive in Russia in _this_ day and age? That would earn you a one way ticket to the gallows. Nobles were a threat to the greater good of the future of Russia, apparently that’s what General Edelgard declared a year or so ago. Sylvain couldn’t really remember most of her speech, he had been too tired to pay attention.

“But wait, it gets better,” the worker continued, stopping to cough. “Remember Tomas, from the canteen? He said that there’s some kook out in Paris offering 10 million rubles for her. _Alive_.”

“10 million?! But they’re all dead, remember?”

“Yeah, but there’s been rumors that all the bodies weren’t accounted for. I heard it from Tomas himself. Apparently they loaded all the bodies on a truck, but Annette’s went missing by the time it stopped.”

“It went _missing_? How do you lose a body?”

“Ask any Bolshevik. They’ll tell you.”

The two erupted into laughter, satisfied with the morbid-esqe punchline, but Sylvain couldn’t believe what he had just heard. It was almost too good to be true. Some dumb rich wierdo out in Paris was practically throwing away 10 million rubles to anyone who could bring him “Annette Dominic”? Either he was behind on the times or was just plain stupid. The girl was dead, the Bolshevik’s wouldn’t let a noble go on living, no matter how small of a title they held. But if someone was willing to put up that amount of a reward, hell, even Sylvain would try and impersonate her for a chance for money. But anyone could put on a wig and claim to be nobility, he’d seen people shot in the street for it.

Sylvain took another bite of potato, musing over the details he had just heard. But there was just one factor looping over and over in his head: _Paris_. He had heard of many people who escaped Russia for the city of lights, even Polina was making plans to take her and her baby to Paris in hopes of a better life. That’s the thing about Paris, it wasn’t Russia, and it definitely wasn’t Leningrad. Gears started turning in Sylvain’s head, feeling the pieces putting themselves together.

This was their way out. An answer to a prayer that he and his friend had been hoping for since the revolution began. And the 10 million rubles was just a hefty consolation prize. Their freedom was the real reward.

He needed to be smart. He needed a plan.

He needed Felix.

Sylvain grinned wolfishly, scarfing down the rest of his half of the potato before taking off in a sprint, the drumming pulse of his heart beating along with every pace he made against the concrete. The corners of his mouth were beginning to curl up in a rare feeling of excitement... dare he even say it might be hope. Sylvain honestly couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this. It had been a while.

And he was going to do everything he could to make this feeling last.

* * *

Sylvain didn’t stop running until he was in the backroads of what was the Imperial Gardens of House Dominic. The gardens had exponentially grown at an alarming rate over the past five years, creating a natural camouflage for anyone who wanted to sneak onto the old property. Still, Sylvain took his time to check and recheck again for anyone who might be watching before sliding through a gap in the iron fence, disappearing into a hidden tunnel of overgrown ferns and weeds.

The gardens were right next to the Dominic Palace, where Sylvain had been calling home for the past year and a half. It wasn’t the most ideal place to live; the interior had been crumbling due to the lack of upkeep from the past half decade, and certain places of the palace had been deemed a hazard, usually by trial and error. And that usually meant that Sylvain would suddenly find himself on the ground floor when he was walking on the second, only to look up and see his best friend yelling at him through a new hole in the ceiling. Not to mention they couldn’t have a fire during the harsh winters, fire meant smoke. Smoke meant life. Life meant someone was trespassing and needed to be put to death. But there were many blankets and furs left behind when the Dominics were kidnapped, and they probably weren’t coming for them anytime soon. Despite all the flaws, it beat being crammed in a tiny two bedroom apartment with sixteen other people. Sylvain would much rather take a cold winter in an abandoned palace than a cold winter squashed up like a sardine.

This was Russia. You had to make sacrifices.

Sylvain hurried across the courtyard to the back doors, letting himself in the kitchen and slowly closing the doors after him. He immediately threw his satchel on one of the nearby hooks, noticing that there was another bag hanging just a few hooks down.

 _Good_ , Sylvain thought to himself, _he’s still here_.

He quickly shed his coat onto the maroon stained tile and started to run down the hallway and up the stairs to the late Baron’s study, where he knew his best friend had been holed up since dawn. It was just past two in the afternoon, hopefully he had completed his work by then. But when Sylvain burst through the grand oak doors, he found him exactly as he had left him that morning, hunched over a desk, quill pen in hand.

“Felix!”

His loud greeting was immediately met with a flying quill boring itself into the wall, a mere centimeters from his face. Sylvain’s eyes slowly trailed from the quill from where it flew from, making eye contact with amber eyes, full of what appeared to be murderous intent. Sylvain felt a cold sweat suddenly erupt throughout his back. This was bad.

“F-Felix. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I-I forgot to knock.”

“Are you a fucking idiot?” Felix growled. Sylvain unconsciously gulped, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Did I mess you up?”

“You’re damn lucky that you didn’t!” Felix immediately scooted the chair back, rising and crossing the room to meet Sylvain in four quick paces. Slyvain tried to dodge, but Felix was too quick. He curled his fists around Sylvain’s suspenders, yanking on the leather and forcing Sylvain to bend over so he was face to face with Felix. Sylvain gulped. He was in deep shit. “Do you know how long I spend on those papers?! Do you?!”

“I’m sorry, Felix! Really, I am!”

“Sorry isn’t enough, _мудак_! Just one mistake and I don’t get paid! Do you _not_ want to eat?”

“Fe, I said I was sorry! Let me go!” Sylvain’s hands went to try to pry Felix’s fists off of his clothes, straining against Felix’s fingers of steel. He wasn’t budging.

“Do you even know how long it takes me to make a forgery this good?! I’ve been working for…”

Felix’s rant trailed off and he suddenly went limp, loosening his grip around Sylvain’s clothes and crashing into a heap on the carpet below.

“Oh, shit.” Sylvain crouched down to Felix’s side, immediately noticing the tremors in his friend’s hands and the tiny beads of sweat dotting his hairline. Sylvain let out a sigh. Felix only got like this when he worked for hours. He often got held up in his work and would ignore everything else, too focused in his forges to notice a growling stomach or even a sinking sun. “Did you eat anything today?”

“Don’t change the subject, shithead,” he slurred.

“Shut up. What was the last thing you ate?”

Felix turned his head, locs of raven hair dragging themselves out of his messy bun as he rolled his head on the carpet. The redhead groaned, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer out of his friend. He was too goddamn stubborn for his own good. Instead he clasped his hand around Felix’s wrist and pulled him up off the ground without any kind of restraint. He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out the other half of the potato and extending it to Felix. “Here. Eat this, you idiot.”

Felix eyed the vegetable before looking up at Sylvain. “Where did you get this?”

“Just eat it.”

Felix sighed, taking the potato and leaning back against the desk before taking a large bite. “So,” Felix grumbled, mouthful of potato, “what was so important that you had to barge in like a madman?”

Sylvain bounced on the balls of his feet, suddenly now chipper as his friend wasn’t set on murdering him anymore. “You’re never going to believe it, Fe. You remember Annette Dominic?”

Felix paused, taking a moment before chewing and swallowing. “I’ve heard of her. Why?”

“Get this, there’s a rumor that she’s still alive.”

Felix snorted, rolling his eyes before taking another bite. “That’s hilarious,” he muttered, absolute deadpan. “What’s next? Goats are flying?”

“I’m serious! Kronya had a vision. And-”

“That goddamn woman’s visions are as reliable as the Bolsheviks. Remember when she said that all your teeth would fall out if you kept eating beans?”

“It was my fingernails, but that’s not the point!”

“Oh, my mistake.” Felix rolled his eyes and polished off the rest of the potato. “You can’t trust what that hack says. You know that.” He swallowed and wiped his hands on his pants. “Now get out. I need to finish these papers.” Felix turned on his heel, making his way back to his desk. “Close the door on your way out.”

“Felix! You didn’t let me finish!”

“There’s nothing left to talk about. Go away.”

“But there’s a 10 million ruble reward for Annette Dominic!”

Felix’s hand hovered over his chair, frozen in place at the mention of the reward money. Sylvain could only grin as Felix slowly craned his head, peering over his shoulder to look Sylvain dead in the eye. Sylvain giggled. He got him.

“10 _million_? Where did you hear that?”

“Yep. Tomas said there’s some kook out in Paris offering big bucks for anyone who can present him a living, breathing Annette.”

Felix let out a large breath and collapsed into his chair. Tomas was the city’s Bishop, though that title had been officially revoked once the Bolsheviks took over the city and shut down the churches. Regardless, he still acted as a man of God, sharing what he had and helping those less fortunate. Though more importantly, he played a large hand in saving Felix’s life four years ago. Despite Felix’s upbringing and general distaste towards religion, he trusted Tomas. The man never had a reason to lie; Felix took his words as truth. If Tomas said that there was a man out in Paris offering 10 million rubles for a noble, then that must be happening.

“This would be the biggest con we’ve ever pulled off,” Felix mumbled. “Jesus Christ.”

Sylvain perked up. “So you’re in?”

“You got me as soon as you said 10 million.”

The redhead clapped his hands together before punching the air with a fist. He let out a yelp of victory as Felix leaned forward to interlock his fingers together and press his elbows into his knees. He leaned his chin into his fingers, narrowing his eyes in what Sylvain recognized as Felix’s deep thinking face. There was no doubt Felix was in the beginnings of concocting some sort of elaborate plan. He was the brains behind the two, Sylvain relied more on charisma and his “devilish charms” when it came time to execute their schemes. They were two halves of a deadly coin, and have been for the past year and a half.

“This is going to be risky, Sylvain,” Felix mumbled, scrubbing his face with his hands. “We’re going to have to be more careful than usual.”

Sylvain snorted, shooting Felix a cocky grin. “We’ve come this far. I think we can handle whatever comes our way.”

Felix only rolled his eyes before turning back to his desk. He reached across it to grab an oval-shaped object that Sylvain immediately recognized. He was the one who found it when they first moved in. They tried their best to open it, but it refused to budge and Sylvain was about to chuck it out the window to see how far it would go when Felix claimed it as his. He had been using it as a paperweight ever since, though they still had no clear idea what it actually was.

“Give me three days,” Felix muttered, flipping the fancy paperweight over to see Annette Dominic’s name engraved on the bottom. “I’ll think of something by then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not Russian so if i messed up feel free to roast my google translate skills
> 
> also come scream with me on twitter @murph_moon where I also posted a moodboard for this chapter and will be making one for each chapter as well


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